Sheikh's Wayward Wife by Sandra Marton

Author:Sandra Marton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2008-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Paris. The city of romance. Of light. The city that was the fashion capital of the world, and she was strolling it in rolled-up men’s jeans, a T-shirt and a man’s blue shirt jacket. Plus the finishing touch. Laced-up sensible black shoes, two sizes too large, borrowed from a blushing Marianne.

Actually, that wasn’t the finishing touch.

That honor belonged to the man walking beside her. Khalil, wearing mocs, light-blue jeans, a navy T-shirt and a black leather jacket, looking so gorgeous that women couldn’t help but smile at him.

Then they looked at her, their artfully-drawn lips parted and their blusher-highlighted chins all but dropped to their elegantly clad toes.

Layla snorted.

The minute they’d left the marble lobby of the apartment building, she’d wanted to run back inside and hide, or at least grab a paper bag and jam it over her head on the ostrich theory. If nobody could see your face, they couldn’t see the rest of you.

Khalil wouldn’t let her. She’d taken a step back and he’d slipped his arm around her and drawn her close against him.

“You look beautiful, habiba.”

The man caught on fast, but he wasn’t a very good liar.

“I look like a kid dressed for a Halloween party.”

A grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “A charming description.”

“An accurate one,” she’d muttered, “and do us both a favor, okay? Don’t insult my intelligence by trying to tell me I look beautiful.”

“For all you know, everyone will think you’re dressed in a style that just walked off the runway at Milan.”

That had made her smile. “Oh, if only.”

She’d tried not to react to the stares. It didn’t matter how she looked, she’d told herself, but she hadn’t believed it for a second. They had just turned onto Avenue Montaigne when a statuesque brunette who looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Vogue cover glanced at her, then at Khalil, and bit back a smile.

“Okay,” Layla said, shooting the brunette an icy glare, “that’s it. You said we’d do some shopping. When?”

“Very soon, I promise.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ll have to borrow some money from you. I don’t have anything. No cash. No credit cards.”

“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t we have breakfast first, since we seem to have, uh, skipped having it in my apartment? Then we’ll find you something to wear.”

Two teenaged girls coming toward them, dressed as fashionably as the brunette, looked at her, at each other, and giggled.

“We’ll shop first,” Layla said through her teeth. “There must be a place like the Gap nearby where I can get jeans that will fit and a shirt and shoes. And then you’ll tell me what you’re planning. You said you would.”

He nodded. “Yes to both requests, habiba. In fact—let’s go in here.”

She blinked. This was not the Gap, this was a shop fronted with a heavy wooden door guarded by a majordomo dressed as a Cossack. The signature of a designer whose cheapest T-shirt would surely cost a king’s ransom was scrawled in gold on the smoked-glass window.

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